“I never had anything against Mr. Gilbert,” answered Ben, loyally. “He took good care of his friend.”
“Oh yes! But—but—Ben,” she faltered, “there is something—something I would like to ask you. It’s a very strange thing to ask you; but there is no one else. Did you ever think—sometimes I was afraid, you know, that Mr. Gilbert—it makes me very, very unhappy—was getting to—to care for me—”
“No, I never thought so,” answered Ben.
“Oh, I’m so glad. But if he had?”
“I should say such a man ought to be shot.”
“Yes, oh yes—he ought to be shot,” she assented, hysterically. “But, Ben—but you cared for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But that was a very different thing. Mr. Easton wasn’t my friend, as he was Mr. Gilbert’s, and I commenced caring for you long before he was laid there sick and helpless. He would be just as much to blame as if you was married to Mr. Easton already. I don’t see any difference. But I don’t think he could. You must have been mistaken.”
“Perhaps I was. Yes, I must have been mistaken. I’m glad to have you speak so frankly, Ben. It is too horrible to believe. For if he had been so, of course it could only be because he saw, or thought he saw, something in me that would let him. And you never could think anything so bad, so heartless, of me, could you, Ben?”
“No, I couldn’t, Mrs. Farrell,” answered Ben, decidedly. “What’s the use—”
“Thank you, Ben—thank you. I knew you couldn’t; it would be too monstrous. Oh yes, it’s just like some horrid dream. Such a woman as that wouldn’t deserve any mercy—not if she had allowed him to think so for one single instant. Would she?”